


Catalyst

by troisroyaumes



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Community: basketballpoetsociety, Gen, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-25 14:24:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troisroyaumes/pseuds/troisroyaumes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Midorima runs into Himuro at the library.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [basketballpoetsociety](http://basketballpoetsociety.tumblr.com/)'s first challenge: [zodiac compatibility](http://basketballpoetsociety.tumblr.com/post/38856630922/challenge-1-best-zodiac-compatibilities).
> 
> Thanks to readerofasaph, half_sleeping and lacewood for listening to me complain and answering my questions about canon that I was too lazy to double-check for myself.

Shintarou checked his satchel for the porcelain bell, snugly wrapped in tissue paper, and ascertained that it was still intact before setting the textbook in front of him. He went through his usual ritual: inhale, exhale with closed eyes, as he mentally recited each topic to cover in this study session, then unbuckling his watch and noting the time before positioning it next to the closed textbook, just outside his peripheral vision. He took out a notebook and a fountain pen—filled with a new black ink cartridge—and wrote at the top of a new page, “REACTION KINETICS.”

He wrote rate laws for zero-order, first-order and _n_ th-order reactions, then systematically compared the formulas he had recalled against the textbook. He did the last ten practice problems—the ones at the end were always of the highest difficulty—and corrected his answers according to the official solutions. At this point, he paused and turned his head to glance at the watch. Nineteen minutes. He frowned. He would not make much headway on reaction coordinate plots in one minute.

With a sigh, he turned back to the section on rate laws and read through the text again. When he glanced at the watch, the second hand was ten seconds past the twenty-minute mark.

He leaned back and stretched his arms. To his surprise, someone had taken the empty carrel next to his. The student was hunched over his textbook, hands clutching at his smooth, dark hair. Shintarou stared at his profile, trying to put a name to the face—

“Yousen’s number 12.” Himuro. Yes, that was the name.

Himuro started in his seat and turned to look back at Shintarou. “Do I know—oh. You’re Shuutoku’s shooting guard.”

Shintarou nodded. “I didn’t realize you were in Tokyo.”

“I transferred to Keio this year.”

“Ah. Then I’ll be seeing you on the court in two weeks.”

Himuro smiled. “Toudai? I expect you’re already a starter.”

Shintarou didn’t bother to confirm. Instead, he gazed steadily at Himuro and said, without a smile, “I look forward to the game.”

He turned back to his textbook and glanced at the watch. Six minutes. He shook his head and turned the page to the section on reaction coordinate plots. He traced one of the example graphs with the tip of his pen; in his mind’s eye, he could see the parabolic arc of a basketball as it left the fingertips, slicing the air as it reached its inevitable destination and sank into the hoop. The arms outstretched, the hands relaxed, the feet landing lightly against the ground on their toes, just before the ball thudded against the floor. Shintarou could remember dozens of such moments: most were from games where he had been merely a spectator, but some were from games when he had stood not more than a few meters away, breath caught as he watched another perfect shot.

He dutifully spent the next several hours, wading through activation energies, the Eyring equation, reaction mechanisms, transition states, and rate-determining steps, allowing himself only five-minute intervals, which he senselessly spent staring at the wall dividing his carrel from the next.

He heard a chair scrape against the floor, the muffled sounds of books and papers being gathered together, the zip of a bookbag. Himuro stood and said quietly, “Good to see you, Midorima.”

Shintarou didn’t look up or answer. A moment later, a small wad of paper, tightly folded into a pentagon, landed exactly on the centerline of his textbook. He glanced at his watch—still ten minutes left—and resolutely ignored it, making notes instead on Michaelis-Menten kinetics and working through the last three problems.

Three minutes left. He stared at the folded paper. Jerkily, he reached out and unfolded it.

There was a phone number and a scribbled note: “I play at the street courts near Aoyama.”

Automatically, Shintarou reached out and checked his bag; the porcelain bell was still there, intact. He quickly put away his books and shouldered his satchel. If there was a lightness to his step as he left the library, no one appeared to notice.

Certainly a lucky day.


End file.
